


Reflections

by fluffymusketeer



Series: 2018 Tumblr Drabbles [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst and Feels, Animal Death, Drabble Collection, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 04:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13403889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffymusketeer/pseuds/fluffymusketeer
Summary: A duo of reincarnation-themed drabbles, originally posted on tumblr.1. Mirror, Mirror.It is a strange thing, to share your bedroom with a stranger from another dimension.2. Reflections.Levi cannot get enough of the reflections in the lake.





	1. Mirror, Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some [beautiful art for this fic](http://fluffymusketeer.tumblr.com/post/177897258981/a-little-while-ago-i-commissioned-newinshayneity) that I commissioned from @newinshayneity on tumblr.

It happens after a long shift. They’d lost a patient en route to the ER that day, and all Eren wants is to crack open a bottle of wine and sink into oblivion.

He glances idly at his full-length bedroom mirror as he’s peeling off his clothes. Instead of scruffy brown hair, tired eyes, and a fading green uniform, he finds another world reflected.

“Huh,” Eren says, scratching his head.

The world in the mirror is a person’s bedroom, neat and spartan. Eren can almost smell the wood polish on the worn surfaces.

Of course Eren tries sticking his hand through the mirror, and checking behind it, and for good measure he examines the corners of his bedroom for hidden cameras. Nothing is out of the ordinary. It’s  _his_ mirror. Same white frame, same shiny screws, even the same smudges on the glass.

It’s just not his reflection  _in_ the mirror. It’s somebody else’s bedroom.

He drags a chair in and eats his microwave dinner-for-one while staring at the empty bedroom. It’s raining in the mirror world. Eren can see a rainbow through the window.

He’s getting into his pyjamas when there is movement in the mirror. Eren’s back snaps straight and he watches as a middle aged man slams open the door and marches in, shaking out wet hair which is greying at the temples. There is no sound coming from the mirror world. Just images.

“Hello?” Eren steps closer to the mirror. “Can you hear me?”

Evidently not. The man stomps about the bedroom, shucking wet clothes and scowling. His hair is styled in an undercut. Eren doesn’t recognise him.

The man is unbuttoning his shirt to reveal taut abdominal muscles criss-crossed with faint scars when he finally glances at the mirror. He does a double take.

Eren offers an embarrassed wave.

The man stands frozen in the middle of his bedroom, mouth agape. Eren watches in growing alarm as the colour drains from his already pale features.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” Eren says. “I don’t know how this happened.”

He mouths a word. Eren can hear no sound, none whatsoever, but he recognises the shapes the other man is making with his lips.  _Eren,_ he is saying.  _Eren._

“You know my name?”

The man walks up to his side of the mirror and reaches out.

Eren steps back instinctively.

The man’s hand hits glass. He presses his palm against it, the skin going white with pressure. Thin eyebrows draw together in confusion. He looks back up at Eren and says something, words Eren can neither hear nor recognise.

“I’m sorry.” Eren points to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

 _Eren,_ he mouths again.

Eren shrugs. He hasn’t a clue. Suddenly the man slaps his palm against the mirror.

“Hey, don’t do that—”

Then the mirror world is tilting and Eren feels weirdly off balance, until he realises the man on the other side has lifted his own mirror up to check behind it. The world of the neat bedroom returns, and the man is carefully examining the edges of his side of the mirror, pressing his fingers into the corners as if they will give way.

Finally, he grows frustrated.

His lips form a silent shout.  _Eren!_  He hits the mirror with his fist. Again. And again.

Eren is alarmed by the show of distress. He raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, it’s okay.”

The mirror on the other side can take no more. A solid slam of a fist and the glass cracks into a thousand splinters. The last thing Eren sees is the man’s horrified expression as he reaches a bloody hand up to stop what is happening, and then the mirror shatters.

Eren is left staring at his own reflection, pale and shocked in his own unbroken mirror.

He waits for a long time, but the mirror world does not return.

 

Three days later, Eren is carrying an armful of toilet rolls through to his en suite bathroom when he notices the mirror world has reappeared. “Oh!” he says in surprise, and drops the toilet rolls. They scatter across his bedroom floor, rolling under his bed.

The view of the spartan bedroom is different, as if the man’s side of the mirror has moved position. He is there, slouched in an armchair in the corner, legs stretched out and arms crossed.

After several seconds, he glances idly towards the mirror. Eren waves again.

The man scrambles up, says  _Eren_ , and strides to the mirror.

“Hello,” Eren says. “I guess you replaced your mirror, huh?”

The man is speaking words Eren cannot understand, and while Eren can tell he is growing frustrated again, he seems much more in control of his temper. His eyes roam across Eren’s face, grey and searching. The wayhe gazes makes a blush creep into Eren’s cheeks.

“I still can’t understand you,” Eren says. “But I have an idea. Stay  _right_  there.”

He heads to the kitchen to fetch a pad of paper and a pen.

When he returns, there is another person in the room with the man. Eren isn’t sure if they are male or female, but they are wearing an eye patch and scratching their head.

Eren waits until the man notices him.

His grey eyes widen and he gesticulates wildly at the mirror, looking between it and his companion. Eren dutifully waves, but it’s as if the other person is looking right through him. They shake their head and look confused. Eren does not miss the worried look they send the man’s way when he’s busy staring at Eren.

“They can’t see me,” Eren concludes.

The man seems to come to a similar conclusion, and snaps something at his companion. After brief words and tense body language, the man’s companion leaves.

Eren writes ‘ _Can you read this?’_ on his pad of paper. The man stares at it. He looks back up at Eren, eyes lost.

Eren writes his own name, because the man seems to know it, and holds that up instead. But that too is a non-starter, and when the man himself tries the same trick, grabbing a sheet of paper and a strange old-fashioned looking pen from his desk, Eren realises why.

“I’ve never seen writing like that before,” Eren says. “I have no idea what that means.”

 _Eren_ , the man mouths.

Eren sighs deeply. “I wish I knew your name.”

The pads of paper and pens are tossed aside and they stare at each other in frustration. The man in the mirror’s greying hair is mussed and untidy, and his soft bedclothes look rumpled. Eren suspects he himself is the reason for the distress, and he doesn’t know why.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and puts his hand against the glass of the mirror.

The man reaches out and lines his palm up with Eren’s. Eren feels nothing but cold glass. It’s just a mirror. The man presses his forehead against the glass, closes his eyes, and his shoulders begin to shake.

“I’m sorry,” Eren says again.

He wishes he could make the pain go away.

 

It is a strange thing, to share your bedroom with a stranger from another dimension.

Eren asks his Mom to take a look at the mirror. She tells him his clothes are just as unfolded in the mirror as they are in reality, and it’s about time he found a nice man to look after him. He is forced to shoo her away when she starts folding his underwear, supremely conscious of the curious and perhaps even slightly amused gaze of the man in his mirror.

One time, after a particularly depressing shift which involves attending a multi-car pileup on the freeway, he goes for a drink with a male nurse from the ER that Petra introduces him to. They wind up stumbling into his apartment later that night, tearing at each other’s clothes.

Eren heads to his bedroom to freshen up. When he puts the light on, he startles the mirror man, who is reading on his bed. He puts his book down, amiably strolling over.

He freezes when he sees Eren’s debauched state, staring at the hickeys.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m twenty nine,” Eren grumbles.

It takes him long seconds to understand the expression which creases the man’s face. It’s hurt. Confusion, and pain, and heartbreak, and  _hurt_.

“Oh,” Eren says. “Oh.”

His ardour goes down quickly after that. No matter how hard he tries to get back into things on the sofa, he cannot forget the man in his mirror and the expression on his face. In the end, Eren makes his excuses and books a taxi for the cute nurse, and wonders how he will explain it to Petra.

The man stares at him as he finally clambers into bed. Alone.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eren says. “Thanks for the cockblock, buddy.” He switches off the light.

Not long after, Eren has an unexpected morning off due to a last minute shift change, and catches the man in the mirror fresh from a shower. At first Eren is transfixed by the ripped abdominal muscles and flexing biceps, but soon he notices fresh wounds across the man’s rib cage. He looks like he’s been mauled by some kind of animal.

“You’re hurt,” Eren says.

The man is bandaging himself up with practiced efficiency, regarding Eren with a look he cannot decipher.

“You… you really need stitches,” Eren points out. He watches the man, and the man watches him, and finally Eren asks, “What do you  _do?_ ”

He gets no answer.

 

Eren grows worried about the man in his mirror. He knows it’s silly. He should be worried about  _himself_. He could be having some kind of psychotic break, seeing things that nobody else can, and with his job…

Instead he’s teaching the mirror man how to play Go Fish. It’s an awkward endeavour, requires two decks of cards and a lot of ill-drawn pictorial rules, but they are getting there.

“Your friend with the eye patch is getting worried about you,” Eren remarks casually.

The man in the mirror holds up three fingers.

“No threes,” Eren says, and does their agreed-upon hand wriggle. “Go Fish.”

The man takes a card from his deck. His shoulders slump, and he gestures for Eren to continue.

“Every time you go to your job, you come back injured,” Eren says. “Are you not very good at it, or are you being reckless?”

The man gestures at Eren’s cards impatiently.

“I don’t know what you do for a living,” Eren says. “But please be careful. For me?”

The man is calm right now, interested in the game, but sometimes he looks at Eren with tears in his eyes. Sometimes he looks at Eren with yearning.

Eren is worried about the man in the mirror.

 

One night, the man does not come to bed. Eren doesn’t grow alarmed until two days later, when he still hasn’t returned. Eren paces in front of his mirror, rakes his fingers through his hair, and realises the man isn’t the only one who has gotten attached.

The book the man had been reading when he’d last left the room sits untouched and unfinished on the bedside table.

Dust motes float in the red evening light of the mirror world.

“Where are you?” Eren asks into the empty space, feeling sick.

 

He never comes back. It is two weeks before the companion with the eyepatch opens the door to the bedroom, and as soon as Eren sees their blotchy face, he knows.

“No,” he says.

He watches, stifling his sobs with the back of his hand, as the companion begins to sort through the man’s belongings with stilted movements. After an hour or so, a girl that Eren has never seen before comes in, wearing an ancient and tattered red scarf. She takes one look at the growing chaos and rolls her sleeves up to help. Eren is glad, because the man likes to keep his room tidy, and it seems a sacrilege to mess it up after—

He phones his Mom.

“Eren,” Carla says. “What on earth has happened?”

“Mom,” he sobs.

“Hold on, baby. I’m on my way.”

 

When they remove the last of the man’s belongings from the bedroom, the world in the mirror fades away.

 

Six months later, Eren and Petra are called to the scene of an accident. It’s in a state-managed forest, and they are trudging up a dirt trail with the stretcher and medical gear. Petra says, “This is ridiculous! We’re going to need the air ambulance, you know.”

“They think it’s just a broken leg,” Eren tells her.

“I’m always right about these things, Eren.”

They come across the scene of the accident. “Thank god you’re here,” one of the other tree surgeons says. “He’s awake but he’s  _really_  woozy. We haven’t moved him.”

“Where?” Eren asks.

He stops short. On the ground, surrounded by fussing colleagues, is the man from the mirror.

Eren pushes through, heart lurching beneath his ribcage. “Give me space,” he says, and kneels down.

It’s the same man. The  _exact_  same. Rounded cheeks, dark hair with wisps of silver grey, pale eyes blinking at the sky. He even has the same biceps, which Eren is ashamed to realise he has memorised far too well. The only differences are the Forest Service overalls and the broken yellow hard hat.

Eren peers up at the tree, at the jagged branch from which half the man’s harness still hangs.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

Eren looks down at the man, who is staring up at him.

“The branch fucking  _broke._  It wasn’t my fault.” His voice is deep and clipped and exactly like Eren imagined. “Stupid, though,” he mutters.

“Oh?” Eren says, and gently begins to examine the man’s neck.

“Who are you?” the man asks.

Eren signals for Petra, who has the neck brace ready and waiting. “I’m Eren,” he says. “We’re going to take you to the ER, okay?”

“Oh, great.”

Eren takes a deep breath. He cannot believe that the man in the mirror is  _real_. He’s here, and he’s solid, and thank  _fuck_  his neck isn’t broken. Is it the same man? He doesn’t appear to recognise Eren, though Eren can feel his gaze intently nonetheless.

“You’re pretty cute,” the man says.

Eren blinks.

“Oh god, I just said that, didn’t I? Fuck.” The man’s cheeks are going red. “Nice one, Levi. Just ignore me,  _ignore_ me.”

“Your name is Levi?” Eren asks.

The man stares, going redder. “Yeah,” he says slowly.

“Levi,” Eren repeats. He takes the man’s hand, and squeezes. “I’m going to take care of you, Levi.”

Eren can feel Petra staring at him, but all he sees is silver. Pale eyes that are open and wide and  _here_. Something in them flashes, a spark, a sign, a something _._

A something which is mirrored in Eren’s soul.

Levi swallows, and his fingers squeeze back. “Your name is Eren,” he says, eyebrows knitting into an introspective frown. “And mine is Levi.”

“Yes,” Eren says. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Levi.”


	2. Reflections

Every morning, Levi and Eren take a walk along the old footpath by the lake. It is slow going these days, with Levi’s failing eyesight and Eren’s arthritis. “You’re as bad as your namesake was,” Levi grumbles, eyeing Eren’s wobbly legs. **  
**

“Woof,” Eren replies, snuffling in the weeds for new scents.

He doesn’t know why he named the dog Eren, but when it ambled up to him at the rescue centre, tongue lolling stupidly and red setter hair wafting in the breeze, Levi couldn’t think of any other name.

They’re both old now, but they can still make it along the lake well enough.

Which is just as well, really, because Levi likes very much to be among the trees. The secluded lake path is lined with beech and yellow birch, and some particularly fine eastern hemlock. Levi’s favourite season is fall, when a low mist hangs above the still deep waters of the lake, and the golden-red hues of falling leaves make the path easier on Eren’s paws. It used to be spring, but fall feels more fitting now.

There is another reason Levi likes to walk along the lake every day.

That reason is the lake itself, and the reflections he sees in it. Reflections of another life.

Levi knows the story of the man in the mirror. It was one of Eren’s particular quirks, one of the things Levi loved about him. The way his eyes would sparkle as he outlined his daydreams and half-baked theories and sometimes fished out scientific papers to show the girls, who groaned and rolled their eyes and said, “Da-ad, not again!”

Truthfully, Levi hadn’t taken it that seriously. Often he’d say to Eren, “Love, perhaps not in front of the new boyfriends?” as they settled into bed at night. It wasn’t until he first ventured along the footpath beside the local lake that he saw them, and realised Eren had been deadly serious all along.

“Well,” he’d said to the dog. “Either that, or heartbreak has finally turned my brain to mush.”

“Woof,” replied Eren, and snapped at a fruit fly.

The reflections are only visible when the sun’s morning rays dapple across the still surface of the lake, as though something in the mid-morning sunshine cuts through the murk of the modern world and into another dimension, as if the walls between the worlds are thinner in that particular light and warmth.

Levi always waits until they get to Eren’s bench before he sits down to enjoy them. A gift from the girls, the brass plaque reads:  _For Eren Jaeger, loving husband and father. He saved many lives._  Levi’s failing eyesight means he can’t make out the elegant script as well as he used to, but the words are inscribed into his heart anyway.

“I wonder what’s in store for us today, Eren?” Levi murmurs as he flops down with a creaky back and a wheezing breath.

The dog lifts his leg to reclaim the bench from whatever intruder has tried to steal it between now and yesterday morning. The bench itself is mossy and seemingly unperturbed by such treatment.

The sunshine hits the mist hovering over the lake, and it begins to clear, tendrils of cloud rolling away as the surface of the water reappears. It’s almost eerie, but Levi only leans forward and squints. “Oh, look, Eren,” he says. “They’ve finished the chimney.”

The lives being played out upon the surface of the lake are like something out of a fairytale, and yet, and yet… there is a normality in the reflections that Levi wishes he could sink into and never leave. The two young men – well, young from where Levi is sitting – and the house they are building have become old friends.

He knows them well.

They are Levi and Eren.

The other Levi is rinsing his dusty palms in water from the well, muscles rippling beneath pale skin. The shadows beneath his eyes are better these days, and it’s because he’s in love, and building his home, and things seem pleasant and peaceful. Of course Levi feels a kinship with this other, younger version of himself. He tries to remember the details about the Levi in the mirror world that Eren spoke of so long ago, but it’s hazy now. Regardless, the Levi in the lake looks quietly happy. He wonders if they are the same Levi, or if this is some other world, some other reality, some other Levi.

His Eren is on the roof, tan and gorgeous and also shirtless.

“You lucky sod,” Levi sighs.

The shirtless Eren calls something down to his Levi, points off into the distance, then makes an expansive gesture with his hands. The other Levi shakes his head in fond exasperation.

“Woof,” the dog says.

“Yeah, I have no idea either,” Levi replies.

He watches the scene unfold further as they continue their work. The house is coming along nicely, and he’s so glad they decided to build it. They’ve both looked better for it, even his alter ego getting a bit of a tan. It’s beside a lake in their world too, and Levi wonders if that has something to do with the visions he sees in the mornings.

Witnessing the house being built feels like an honour, a privilege, and it reminds him of when he and Eren moved in together. He was still limping slightly after the accident, and looking back, they really didn’t wait very long, did they?

“Young love. Ridiculous.” Levi runs his palm along the empty space on the bench beside him.

He watches them both in the lake, the moving surface of the water occasionally obscuring their activities, and at length a cloud passes over.

Levi sighs. It never lasts long enough. “They did a good job on that chimney, though,” he murmurs.

The image dissipates as quickly as it had come, and Levi wills his creaking bones to get up and continue on his walk. Sometimes he likes to sit a while, and remember, but it’s chilly this morning. A cold front is coming in from the north east, the radio said, and he doesn’t need to bother the neighbour with another trip to the vets.

“Come on then, you old fart,” he says to Eren. “Let’s go home.”

 

Levi cannot get enough of the reflections in the lake. The fresh spring blossoms of the other world are at odds with the fall leaves of his own, burnished in goldenrod and mahogany, at odds with the growing chill of the turning of the year, with the slow-fading light. He has to wrap himself up warm every morning, and bending down to clip on Eren’s tartan coat is becoming increasingly difficult, but it’s impossible to stay away from the lake.

They have some kind of fancy personalised harnesses in that world – no need for ladders – and when the other Eren and Levi use them to fly up to the roof, Levi marvels at how useful such contraptions would have been in his old career.

He peers around at the now familiar lakeside trees. They are increasingly bare but healthy, and he imagines flying through the branches like his other self. He glances back down in time to catch the other Eren sweeping a glance over the curves of the other Levi’s butt while he’s not looking, and feels a chuckle rumble in his chest. They are side-by-side, laying tiles on the roof. Ah, to be young again.

“Woof.” Eren’s bark is muffled around a stick.

“No, stupid—no, you’re not supposed to—” Levi sighs and wrestles the stick from Eren’s jaws, tosses it back into the leaf litter. “Aren’t you a bit old for that nonsense?”

By the time he has searched for the dog’s tennis ball and thrown it a few times, Eren hobbling after it like an idiot who still thinks he’s a pup, the roof tiling has been abandoned. The other Eren has his Levi pressed against a doorframe, his collar rumpled and his cheeks flushed.

He leaves them to it with a fond smile.

 

A storm rolls in one night, and a tree gets blown over onto Eren’s bench.

“Papa, papa it’s okay. We’ll get it fixed,” his eldest daughter says over the phone.

“I should have spotted it,” Levi says. “I missed it, it was rotten right through. How could I have missed it?”

There is a short pause, his daughter speaking to her husband in the background, instructing him to call somebody.

“It’s my stupid eyes,” Levi says. “I can’t trust them anymore!”

“Papa, it’s okay. We’ll get you new glasses.”

“I should—I should—” Levi looks around for his phonebook. “I need to call someone. I can’t find the telephone!”

“You’re holding the telephone, Papa. We’re already calling someone. Don’t worry, we’ll get it fixed.”

About ten minutes later, his next door neighbour pops over. Gently pries the phone from his hand and puts the kettle on.

Levi looks out of the window at the storm damage, and all he can see in his mind’s eye is Eren’s bench, splintered in two like a snapped twig. He hadn’t even stayed to see how the house was getting on.

 

The trees are bare by the time the new bench is delivered. The wood is too bright, there isn’t enough moss, the newly-engraved plaque doesn’t look right because they’ve changed the font. Levi stands beside it as Eren sniffs and marks. It’s been a while, and he’s afraid the reflections will be gone. He hasn’t missed a day since he first saw them, but his youngest insisted on coming to stay for a few weeks, and kept taking the dog out before he was properly awake.

At last the clouds clear, and the mist rolls back, and the sun’s rays fall across the rippling surface, shimmering gold and blue.

When he sees the smoke puffing out of the chimney, he sits down heavily.

“Looks like… looks like the kitchen is finished then,” he says.

He can see them through the window, Eren poking the fireplace excitedly, his Levi sanding down a wooden countertop, sleeves rolled up. Levi is glad the storm didn’t somehow blow through to the other world and crush their house as it did his bench.

 

Now the house is watertight, progress moves indoors, and he sees them less and less. Sometimes various friends seem to get roped in to help, showing up with armfuls of material for curtains or bedspreads and on one memorable occasion a giant bone, for which he can think of no reasonable explanation.

Once again it reminds him of when his Eren first moved in, Eren’s pleasant colleague Petra showing up to help too, and Levi had discovered a disco ball and a karaoke machine in one of the boxes. Things had all looked tense for a moment, as if moving in together after only a few weeks was, in fact, an insane idea after all.

Then Petra’s husband Oluo had arrived with the beers and somehow Levi had ended up doing a rousing rendition of Fly Me To The Moon. Or at least he was reliably informed he did, as he stared at his breakfast the next day and tried not to throw up.

 

Levi goes up into the attic and gets Eren’s old boxes of research down, and traces the faint lines of scruffy handwriting in the margins which spell out words like  _multiverse_  and  _time dilation_  and  _reincarnation_.

Occasionally he finds his name in the margins, still with that little heart over the i instead of a dot, because deep down Eren was a five year old child who seemed to think in flights of whimsy and grand adventure. Levi’s fingertips linger over his name, and he thinks of the cosy kitchen with its brand new yellow-and-green curtains and the other Eren and Levi sharing a pot of tea. He thinks about home.

When the dog cannot get up one morning, and his neighbour drives them on what Levi knows will be their final trip to the vet, with Eren sleeping on his lap and making his legs ache, Levi wonders what it means to be home.

 

The next day he goes to visit the bench. A little moss has started to grow on it now, soothing Levi’s weary heart, and there is a thin layer of frost crisping the mulch beneath his boots. The lake will ice over soon.

He watches the sun flicker over the water, and as the reflections appear, his eyebrows rise.

The other Levi is leaning against the open doorway of the house. It’s summer there now. Arms crossed, and he’s pretending to look annoyed, but the tiny smile tugging at his lips is threatening to break out further.

His Eren is rolling around on the grass, an excited bundle of reddish-brown fluff nipping at his ankles and bouncing all over him.

They’ve found a puppy.

Levi watches the reflections in the lake, and suddenly a grey eyed gaze meets his own.  _It’s time, by the way_ , the gaze seems to say.

He thinks of his two daughters, his eldest who does something with design and her husband who helped them build the conservatory in the old house, his youngest in medical school with dreams of working abroad.

Levi stands up and brushes himself down. “You know what, Eren?” he says, to no one in particular. “I think I fancy a swim.”

 

The morning Levi Ackerman disappears remains a local legend in the sleepy lakeside town where he spent his final years. A solitary fellow, locals say, but always kind. Loved his dog. The daughters were always so polite when they visited.

But there is another part to the legend, and it’s usually told by the dog walkers or the older children after they’ve been down by the lake.

Sometimes, they say, if you take a walk in the morning and sit on the old lake bench with its worn-away plaque, and the sun catches the surface of the water just right, instead of the reflected clouds, you can see an image of two men.

They are flying with strange contraptions through a forest, and they have smiles in their eyes and love in their hearts.

And two young puppies will be chasing after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is loved and welcomed <3


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